


C-3PN

by TheInternationalAffair



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Gen, Horror, Robots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInternationalAffair/pseuds/TheInternationalAffair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the mysterious death of an old acquaintance, Mircea is given a new friend in the form of C-3PN (or, as he calls him, Ciprian), from the deceased party's brother. Everything seems to go fine. For now. Normal!AU (Warning for major/violent character deaths and graphic descriptions of violence/death. Written in lieu of Halloween season.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	C-3PN

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy story. 
> 
> There is death.
> 
> There is violence.
> 
> There are graphic depictions and descriptions of the aforementioned, involving children or children-like beings.
> 
> You have been warned. 
> 
> I'll try to keep things interesting, though.
> 
> Also, this is my first attempt at writing something scary. I didn't want to do it outside of an AU, where there would be a bit more justification for it, but I did want to experiment a little. This is also based off a recent doodle of APH Moldova as some sort of animatronic, with partial inspiration from other sources that might spoil the surprise if I told you what they were. I don't expect this to be more than a couple of chapters. 
> 
> Hopefully this is good enough to get us all in the spirit of Halloween and scariness? 
> 
> APH Moldova is Ciprian/C-3PN and APH Romania is Mircea Ionescu. Change names via web browser extension as needed.
> 
> -TIA/Megu

Death wasn’t very good for Ludwig.

As brawny and tough as the taller man was, Mircea, the shorter, scrawnier man watching Ludwig move around containers from the old mustard-yellow couch at the Beilschmidt home, couldn’t help but notice how painfully terrified Ludwig Beilschmidt was of _everything_. The fact that his big, muscly, and toned arms smashed every poor, innocent spider crawling out from under the lids with assertiveness and certain toughness only proved that Ludwig was probably secretly terrified of all spiders he came across, and this observation was sufficient for Mircea to conclude exactly how _pathetic_ Ludwig was for a man of his size.

And yet, it could also show exactly how kind and sincerely sentimental Ludwig Beilschmidt could get. As Ludwig set one long, white box on the tea table to dust it off, Mircea noted that the stern expression on the man’s face struggled to mask the pain that Ludwig must have been going through. Mircea nearly shuddered as he imagined the details from the coroner’s report—surely it would have been terrible to hear of at the time.

They had found Gilbert Beilschmidt—several years out of college, unemployed, and (most notably) loud-- locked up in his room, lying stiffly in bed as if he were still asleep, his arms bent as if they were wrapped around an invisible object. There was no evidence of lacerations, burns, or strangling, nor were there pill bottles and bleach nearby to suggest other means of an end.

The only sign of death (besides the rigor mortis that had set in several hours before Gilbert was discovered), was the pink in his cold skin, which to all doctors and morticians who had examined his body only  meant poisoning by carbon monoxide.  This much was clear.

What wasn’t clear was where it had come from. While the Beilschmidt’s house was rather old, it was not old enough to have to power any of the bedrooms with the power generators that were now used only in emergency situations—that, and Gilbert Beilschmidt had always found it more invigorating to sleep in the cold. Furthermore, it wouldn’t have made sense for Gilbert to have passed on outside of his room, if the reports were to be believed, as Gilbert had confirmedly been alone the night he did. After witness reports and testimonies had been dissected and digested, every investigator and every private eye and cop on the case had then ransacked the entire room for a source of carbon monoxide that could have killed Gilbert Beilschmidt in his own sleeping quarters.

There was no source to be found.

After further investigations and a brief period of time where Ludwig had been accused of committing the crime, foul play was ultimately ruled out, and the case of the eldest Beilschmidt son--intelligent, methodical, yet brash and charming in his own endearing way—went cold.  

Mircea didn’t blame Ludwig for being upset. Though he wasn’t so close to Gilbert himself, if not closer when they were much younger, the sudden announcement of Gilbert’s death had nonetheless sent Mircea into a state of shock when he had first heard of it. These sorts of tragedies were unheard of outside of local news websites from other places and crime shows—to have experienced it up close was a life event that Mircea would have rather avoided if he could, and he would have managed if the Beilschmidts hadn’t lived so closely to his home. Or acted as childhood friends. And thus, to imagine what Ludwig must have felt about the whole ordeal would have been impossible even if the results were plastered on Ludwig’s face even in the present day and minute, as he wiped the dust from the white box onto a tattered hand and picked up the box again, now headed towards Mircea with it before towering over the smaller man.

“Gilbert was very fond of this,” Ludwig mumbled as he handed the large box to Mircea, his voice nearly as stiff as his arms. He sounded unsure of the words coming out of his mouth, yet the constant blinking and lip-pursing otherwise suggested certainty.

“Here. He’d probably want you to have it.”  

“Oh—Thank you,” was Mircea’s equally graceful reply.

As soon as Ludwig’s hands let go (sweat prints were visible from underneath his palms once they did), Mircea positioned the box on his lap and jostled it lightly with his ear pressed against the stiff cardboard. He wondered if it was some secret military weapon from Gilbert’s collection, which consisted mostly of knick-knacks and nothing the size of a large and long white box, though there was also the possibility that Gilbert could have been hiding something from everyone, even his dearest brother, all along. The thought couldn't really be counted out. In any case, the box was now his and Mircea could do anything he pleased with it, opting to examine it further once Ludwig started busying himself again.

And so, while Ludwig set back to work with the other containers and kill even more spiders, Mircea set his own box down and stared at it thoughtfully, reminiscing about the various plastic toys and metal trinkets, among a variety of other things, scattered on Gilbert’s desk that Mircea would often pick up and play with when conversation between him and Gilbert had gotten stale. There was one particular corpse of a white-ridged succulent that Mircea poked around with so much that Gilbert finally let him keep it, landing the small plant in a sad little cup at the window in Mircea’s room. Since it had died long ago, there was no need for care on Mircea’s part, and he could still claim himself to be some sort of plant enthusiast. Hopefully whatever was inside this box also required little maintenance.

“Mircea," Ludwig called out (or was it commanded?) from the other side of the room., "If you really want to see what’s inside it, perhaps you should head back—it wouldn’t be polite of me to keep you waiting like this,”

Mircea could swear that the younger Beilschmidt had read his mind.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a flurry of events involving getting home, finding the scissors in the mess of his desk, and setting the box on the family room floor, Mircea finally cut through the tape and opened the lid.

The first thing he saw was hair.

Surely Gilbert hadn’t been involved in any wig kidnappings? Mircea mused to himself, but he continued to cut apart the box until the smell of silicone and old plastic filled the air and a little doll-like figurestood before him, with pursed silicone lips and rubbery eyelids and limbs. The hair that Mircea had seen before was apparently settled in dark messy locks on top of the figure’s head, with two pigtail-like antennae sticking out from either side.

Whatever this was, it was probably illegal. And also very uncomfortable to look at. And quite cute. But mostly illegal.

The figure didn’t seem to care, however. It held no grudge against the confused Mircea now scrambling lazily for some manual, waiting patiently for Mircea to read through the booklet he eventually found and dash upstairs to find the thing some clothes to wear, before a panel in the back unscrewed and re-screwed when the proper number of batteries was put in and the body started to twitch and whir slightly.

Now all Mircea had to do was wait.

After a few more twitches in the arm and neck the whirring grew and grew—this had to mean that the ‘thing’ was about to awaken. Fingers lifted themselves in a constant rhythm, toes scrunched in and out slowly, and the sounds of gears shifting could be heard with every move the figure made. Mircea pursed his lips and looked on, returning to the manual from time to time to make sure that he had generally been able to follow the instructions.

Finally, two glass eyes with marbled violet pupils stared into the real eyes of Mircea.

There was another neck twitch. A cock of the head. A blink. Mircea blinked back, but the thing barely seemed to notice.

The lips parted stiffly and slowly to reveal chipped plastic white teeth.

“Hello. It is very nice to meet you, _friend_.” A tinny voice rang out from between the figure’s teeth, seeming to echo inside the body producing it.

“What should I call _friend_ by?”

 As if two invisible fingers had pulled at the corners of his mouth, Mircea grinned back to reveal some broken, fanged teeth of his own.

“You can call me Mircea,” he replied gently. “And you?”

“I am C-3PN,” replied the child-like machine, quick to introduce itself, “I am an Artificially Intelligent Young Pre-Adolescent Human Being Simulator intended to reproduce the emotions, habits, and behavioral patterns of a standard pre-adolescent human. What would you like, Mircea?”

“Hm.” Mircea hesitated before asking. To refer to C-3PN by some sort of code wasn't quite his style. “May I call you… Ciprian?”

“Yes, you may. It is nice to meet you, Mircea.”

Mircea grinned again. “Nice to meet you too, Ciprian.”


End file.
